


Pathicus

by introductory



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dubious Consent, Flash Fic, Hopeful Ending, Institutionalized Abuse, Intergenerational Cycle of Abuse, Multi, Rape/Non-Con (Discussed), Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 22:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14006619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introductory/pseuds/introductory
Summary: pa·thi·cus,n.From the Ancient Greekpathikós("passive"), frompáthos("suffering"), frompáskhō("I feel, I suffer"):A "blunt" word for a male who was penetrated sexually, taking the receptive role during intercourse.  His sexuality was not defined by the gender of the person using him as a receptacle for sex, but rather his desire to be so used.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9078667#cmt9078667) on the kink meme.
> 
> The rape trial/bar scene includes discussion of blackmail/rape, slut-shaming, and a non-descriptive instance of vomiting at the very end.
> 
>  **2019 March:** Finally de-anoning for this. Thank you to everyone who's read, commented, and/or been otherwise moved by this. I'm touched.

Ignis is fifteen when he's called into Cor's office and informed of his newest duty. 

"It isn't a requisite of your service, nor will you incur any punishment for refusing," Cor tells him. "You have the right to revoke consent at any time, and full legal recourse in the unlikely event of assault or coercion."

Ignis can only nod. Cor is protective of Ignis the way he isn't of Gladiolus or even Noctis, but still he speaks to Ignis as if he's already an adult; it's immensely flattering, generally, but at the moment Ignis is having trouble grasping the complexities of the situation. He's barely old enough to shave, and yet now he's being called upon to serve the crown in this wholly unexpected manner. He's not the most attractive youth at the Citadel, nor is this a talent at which he's demonstrated a particular aptitude; at fifteen he is still a virgin, and besides the few experimental kisses he shared with Noctis as children he's had almost no experience in the fields of romance or sexual pleasure. 

"Speaking of legality," continues Cor, "you wouldn't be expected to start any earlier than February. That should give you enough time to think it over."

Ignis opens his dry mouth to speak. "Three months? Won't I need, ah, practice?"

"On the contrary, it's probably for the best you're as inexperienced as possible," says Cor. "That sort of innocence . . . can be appealing, and it's the only thing you can't purchase at a brothel. In any case, you've proven yourself a fast learner; I wouldn't worry too much."

"And this won't reflect poorly on me, correct?" asks Ignis. He's heard the stories of Minister this or Glaive that, tales of sexual deviancy and excess that made his ears burn with secondhand shame. He's heard, too, what they call some of the women who work at the Citadel simply for sleeping with their colleagues: palace bicycle, crown city cockslut. "I won't be . . . maligned?"

Cor shakes his head. "No. It's an honor to serve the crown in this manner, Ignis, and you'll be recognized for that fact; Drautos himself took on this duty as a young man, and look where he is now." He pauses, then says more quietly, "As did I, briefly."

"Oh." Ignis feels his cheeks heating up. Cor was -- Cor did -- "Did you like it?"

"It was a . . . unique experience," says Cor. His handsome brow furrows, and Ignis is struck with the sudden desire to smooth away the wrinkles, to slide into Cor's lap and apply his scant experience to the act of comforting him. "To be honest, I wasn't cut out for it the way the others were. I only lasted six weeks."

"Did you regret it?" 

"At times," Cor says. Ignis considers Cor's admission, weighs his uncle's words of caution, reads the paperwork the Citadel has sent over to him, and on the dawn of his sixteenth birthday, heart leaping in his chest, signs his body over to the crown.

 

\--

 

He loses his virginity to King Regis a few days later. It hurts, and he may have cried a little when the king first bottomed out inside his clenching, spasming guts, but in all the years before and since Ignis has never felt more honored and privileged as in that moment when his king looked down at him and said, voice full of wonder, _The Astrals must have made you just for this, my child._

Ignis knows it's an exaggeration -- knows his own value, that he's worth far more than just a warm and willing body -- and that people say all sorts of things they don't mean in the heat of their lovemaking, but the words fill him with pride nonetheless. The king rarely calls on him, however -- perhaps twice a year at most, too preoccupied with his obligations to seek out comfort in another's arms. More often it's Clarus, who will summon Ignis to his office -- never to his home -- and bend him over his black leather couch, trailing kisses along Ignis's spine; Ignis finds his whispered endearments uncomfortable but still preferable to the way Drautos will take him right in front of the others, conducting official Kingsglaive business with Ignis half-dressed and squirming on his cock. Ignis stops minding so much after a while, though, having grown used to the stares of the Glaives and the other councilmembers, and Drautos is always gracious enough to get Ignis off, fist tight around his neglected cock, before finally sending him on his way.

Most of the women in the Citadel don't seem to want or even notice Ignis, but he doesn't mind this, either. He's realized by now he prefers men, and to be honest he finds it easier and more pleasurable to be fucked than the other way around. The one woman who does call on him regularly is a senior member of the defense committee; she likes to fuck him with a strap-on, to hear him beg for her cock before slamming into him hard enough to shake the bedposts, and even if Ignis didn't enjoy the nature of the act he'd still be proud to serve her. 

He's proud to serve them _all_. The Crownsguard, the Glaive, the High Council, his king: they protect the people of Lucis and hold up the Wall, and it's no hardship for Ignis to bring them whatever measure of solace or distraction he can. He's become good at it, masterful even, and he can hardly remember a time this privilege felt like _obligation_.

And as for Cor -- well. Ignis's adolescent crush has blossomed into yearning; he hints and teases and drapes himself seductively over furniture and yet Cor doesn't blink an eye, not even when Ignis changes his hairstyle in a move Gladio claims should be illegal. It shouldn't bother him that Cor doesn't want him -- he's never heard of Cor taking a lover, male or female, and it's possible that he simply doesn't care for sex -- but Ignis has never liked letting his talents go to waste. 

He thinks about it a lot, at first. As time goes on, though, he puts it out of his mind as best he can and gets on with the rest of his work.

 

\--

 

Gladio is, nominally, straight. 

The distinction hasn't stopped him from availing himself of Ignis's body whenever possible, fucking him in the locker room after Crownsguard training or coming down his throat on one of the Citadel's countless balconies before pounding into him so deep Ignis has to muffle his screams into his forearm. Gladio is rough with him, _filthy_ in a way that contradicts his aristocratic  bearings -- a vast majority of their encounters begin with him trapping Ignis beneath him on the mats or against a row of lockers, physically asserting his birthright to use Ignis as he pleases -- but also unexpectedly sweet, bringing Ignis coffee exactly the way he likes it and lending him documentaries he thinks Ignis would enjoy. Ignis doesn't know much about relationships, but he knows he looks forward to spending time with Gladio outside of training and the bedroom, and the longer it goes on the more he finds himself turning down propositions from Clarus and Nyx and even the king himself, too infatuated with Gladio to even _think_ about having anyone else.

A few months later he's knocking on the door of the Amicitia house, homemade pastries in hand, only for the door to be opened by a young woman he's never seen before. Over her shoulder, Gladio meets Ignis's eyes and shakes his head, mouthing unintelligibly, and Ignis forces himself to tamp down the sharp spike of betrayal in his chest. Of course: Gladio never intended for this to _mean_ anything, and Ignis was the one fool enough to imagine it did.

"Hello," he says politely. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Ignis."

Gladio steps back so the three of them can stand in the foyer. "Ignis, this is Priya," he says. "She's a genius -- came all the way to Insomnia to study the classics."

"Pre-industrial Lucian poetry, to be exact," says Priya, voice tinged with the accent of northern Cleigne. She takes Ignis's outstretched hand and shakes it gently. "It's how we met."

"Yeah," Gladio says, gazing at her with stars in his eyes. "We were searching for the same book in the royal archives at the same time, and things just happened from there."

"I knew instantly I _had_ to have him." Priya laughs, jewelry clinking lightly. She's really quite stunning; Ignis can see why Gladio's so taken with her. "I must admit I'm  surprised -- Gladiolus has never mentioned you, and yet here you are bringing him pastries. What is it you do for a living, Ignis?" 

"I serve His Royal Highness, officially, in whatever capacity the crown prince requires," says Ignis. "Not a terribly thrilling job, I'm afraid -- but my duties at the Citadel are far more interesting." A wave of pettiness rises inside him, and this time he gives in to it. "I'm sure Gladio could tell you all about them. After all, we've been working _so_ closely together as of late. Isn't that right, Gladio?"

"Yeah," says Gladio, smile tight. He takes the bag from Ignis's hand with more force than is necessary. "But it ain't fair for me to keep monopolizing you -- you're supposed to be _everyone's_ Girl Friday, not just mine."

"Indeed," Ignis says, turning to take his leave. "Heavens know I've left the entire Citadel rather desperate these last few months."

Priya eventually breaks up with Gladio for an engineering student at her school, and Ignis allows himself to feel satisfied by this turn of events while making all the requisite noises of sympathy -- he's not above being a rebound, and after all this was never meant to be about _Ignis's_ pleasure. Whatever the two of them might have had, however, seems to be gone: over time they're able to rebuild their friendship and their trust, but Gladio never again deigns to touch him that way. 

But what does it matter to Ignis, really, when so many others are willing to fuck him and praise him, to tell him how good he looks on his knees or spitted upon their cocks? He's almost ashamed of himself for thinking he would ever give this up -- even the bad nights, the ones spent wearing a dead woman's lingerie or being pissed on by a councilman or pretending for hours on end to enjoy dominating someone he has no interest in even seeing naked, are still worth something. He has the trust of every high-ranking member of the court and is privy to council meetings despite his youth and inexperience; he feels the rake of eyes upon him every moment he's at the Citadel, covetous of his body and envious of his ascent, and knows he's doing an excellent job in every one of his chosen fields.

 

\--

 

Noct generally wants as little as possible to do with his own duties and even less to do with Ignis's, which is frankly a godsend. He _must_ know -- of course he must -- but he never asks Ignis about it or gives any indication that he knows exactly why Ignis is walking gingerly on that particular day or where he got the trail of love-bites on his neck, doesn't bat an eye when Ignis's phone lights up with an impromptu summons from Drautos or when Ignis has to cut their evening short to entertain the minister of commerce after a trade deal gone awry.

Sometimes, though, Ignis will catch Noct looking at him differently than he ever has before, a curious keenness in his eyes. He finds himself counting down the days until Noct turns sixteen, even making sure to keep that particular night cleared in his calendar, but when the date comes and goes and Noct seems no closer to calling upon Ignis the way the others have, even a full year later, Ignis begrudgingly has to conclude that, like Cor, he must not be interested. It's an even more crushing blow to Ignis's ego: at this age Noct ought to be addled by hormones and desperate for sex, and to think he'd _still_ reject Ignis, who's made it crystal-clear it's a service he's more than willing to  provide -- it hurts far more than it should. 

It would be one thing if Noct was sneaking around to have sex with someone else -- Prompto far and above the most likely candidate -- but Noct's routine doesn't change, and in fact he seems even _more_ irritable, snapping at Ignis, skipping training with Gladio and meetings at the Citadel, and all the while Ignis can't help but think, _I could make it easier for you, if you would just let me_. 

"Noct," he asks one night, when he can't take the tension any more. "I was thinking -- you've been awfully stressed as of late." 

"No shit," says Noct. "This econ paper is kicking my ass." 

"Would you let me help?"

Noct snorts. "What, you wanna write it for me so I can move on to the next one of my _other_ five-thousand obligations? Be my guest." 

"I'm simply saying, there might be something I can do for _you_." Ignis comes over to Noct's side of the table and places a hand on his shoulder, and Noct looks up at him, startled. His shoulder is tense under Ignis's hand; he squeezes it, lightly but firmly. "Something that  might . . . ameliorate your condition." 

Noct stares up at him blankly for another moment, then suddenly jerks away from him, nearly knocking his chair to the ground. "What -- no!"

"Noct -- "

" _No_ ," says Noct. His eyes flash dangerously, almost as if he's summoning the Armiger. "How could you think -- how dare you."

"I was only trying to -- "

"I don't care _what_ you were trying to do," Noct says, voice rising in pitch and volume. "Never say anything like again. Understand?"

Ignis bows his head. "Y-yes, Your Highness," he says. "My apologies." 

"Don't apologize," Noct says. He picks up his pen from the floor and gets back in his chair with a sigh. "It's not your fault. Just . . . sit back down and help me with this paper, will you?"

"Yes, Highness," Ignis says, and does as he's told.

 

\--

 

The negotiations with Niflheim drag on for days. Neither side seems willing to compromise, and the longer their visit to Lucis goes on the worse the tension grows. At Clarus's suggestion, the king schedules a banquet in the hopes of restoring some of the goodwill between the two parties. 

Ignis is invited, which is a surprise -- while he's knowledgeable about large-scale politics he hasn't been involved in the current proceedings, nor is he royalty or a member of the nobility. He's seated by strangers for the banquet, far away from Noct and Gladio, but close enough to the Niflheimer contingent to observe. Emperor Aldercapt seems a joyless, apathetic man, barely touching the sumptuous meal the Citadel chefs have spent days preparing. The stone-faced prince of Tenebrae radiates hostility from every pore, and the slimy, unctuous general at Aldercapt's right hand makes a grab at one of the house-servants when she comes over to refill his glass. Their chief scientist is nowhere to be seen, and a delicate-featured young man Ignis thinks is a lieutenant is sitting in his place, casting dirty looks at the Lucian royal table every few minutes.

Halfway through the banquet Ignis starts to get a clearer idea of why exactly he was invited, and it's confirmed when the king motions surreptitiously to Ignis, once the tables have been cleared for the next course. 

"I don't need to impress upon you how important these negotiations are," he says, sotto voce. "To think peace with Niflheim may be within our reach after all these centuries of needless strife . . . Our people are depending on us, Ignis."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Ignis says. "I wish it, too."

The king nods solemnly. "Do what you can to see that the delegation is willing to change their minds."

He gives Ignis no further instructions; Ignis decides to approach it hierarchically. Between dinner and desert he excuses himself and goes to take a bath, then slips into the room where the emperor is staying, anxiety level ratcheting the longer he's alone. 

"Good evening, Emperor Aldercapt," he says, when the man finally arrives. "I'd like to offer my services for the night, compliments of King Regis himself."

Aldercapt looks him over and scoffs loudly. "The Lucians call us barbaric," he says. "And yet they send a _child_ to warm my bed."

"I am more than of age," Ignis says, stiffly. "If I'm not to your liking, perhaps something else can be arranged."

"I never said that, boy." He looks Ignis over again and nods. "Well. Get on with it."

Aldercapt turns out to be next to impotent; Ignis struggles for two hours to get him off and by the end of it is painfully sore, jaw aching and ass positively burning. He sends Ignis away when they're done, and Ignis gives himself half an hour to soak in the tub before making his way back to the guest wing, where he knocks on the door of their chief scientist, then their general, then the prince of Tenebrae, and so forth.

The night passes in a blur. In the morning Ignis takes a handful of painkillers and drags himself to Noct's apartment in order to drive him to school. He doesn't miss Noct's keen eyes tracking his every gesture, but he hopes fervently Noct doesn't realize the full extent of what he's had to do; the thought of Noct knowing just how thoroughly he's been _used_ fills Ignis with equal parts dread and horrified shame.

In the end, the negotiations fall through and the Niflheimer contingent returns home, neither side triumphant. Ignis tries not to take it personally -- and logically, he knows it must have much more to do with politics than with his services -- but he can't help feeling deeply disappointed. All of that, and for what? A sore, aching body and a nation still suffering under the Empire's iron fist. 

_It wasn't worth it_ , Ignis thinks, the first time in three years he's ever had the thought, right before taking it and burying it so deep he can't remember having even had it at all.

 

\--

 

Ignis will admit to no one how relieved he is when Clarus finally gets remarried. He hasn't been involved romantically with Gladio for ages, but it's still been incredibly awkward to cancel plans with him in order to service his father; he shudders to think there'd been a time, however brief, that he was servicing them _both_. It doesn't free up too much of Ignis's  time -- his newfound availability is shortly pounced upon by several junior council members -- but it's a weight off his shoulders he didn't even realize he'd been carrying. 

"Your father seems quite taken with his new wife," Ignis observes one night after dinner at the Amicitias' house, helping clear the table while Clarus, Iris, and the new Mrs. Amicitia retire to the living room. "Do you like her?"

Gladio grunts noncommittally. "I like her. We don't talk much, but Iris and Dad really love her, so that's what matters." He brings a stack of dishes into the kitchen and places them into the sink. "Ugh."

"What?"

"Nothing," says Gladio. "It's just -- now that Dad got married again, Iris keeps asking when _I'm_ getting married."

"Oh?" says Ignis. "Not in any rush to the altar, are we?"

Gladio scoffs and turns on the sink. "Nah. Haven't met the one yet."

"Ah," says Ignis. He doesn't know quite what to say to that, and muted silence follows as the two of them wash and dry respectively. 

They're finishing up the dishes when Gladio finally speaks. "Things between us," he says. "I shouldn't have done that to you. 'm sorry, Iggy."

It's an apology several years in the making, but Ignis recognizes that Gladio's pride must have taken some considerable hammering in order for it to become small enough for Gladio to swallow. It's what causes him to swallow his own pride and be obliging about it, giving his friend the sincerest of smiles.

"Your apology is accepted," he says. "No hard feelings -- it was what it was."

"It could've been _better_ ," Gladio says. "For you, I mean. It was pretty shitty of me to just dump you like that."

"Well, yes," Ignis agrees, "but it's in the past. You haven't ruined me, Gladio, if that's what you're worried about."

Gladio snorts. "Good." He hands Ignis the last plate to be dried, then together the two of them put away the dishes. 

"Hey," says Gladio, at the doorway to the living room. "You're good, right?"

Ignis thinks about this for a moment. He's not sure he's ever truly _good_ , not with the looming spectre of war on the horizon, but it's not a stretch to say he's satisfied. His career is advancing well, his body is at its peak performance, his intellect is constantly being challenged in new and interesting ways, and his sex life has never been more active. He's never bored, and he's never lonely. And if he hasn't yet found "the one," either, well -- that's just because he hasn't been looking.

"I believe so," Ignis says. "Yes. I am."

 

\--

 

Cor fucks him that next winter. Ignis has been figuratively gagging for his cock for years and it doesn't disappoint one bit as Ignis swallows it down to the root, its thick head nudging the back of his throat as he blows Cor in his office, the heavy door closed but not locked. Cor groans, releasing a fistful of Ignis's hair to tug off his glasses and place them behind him on the desk; Ignis leans forward until his lips meet his circled fingers, exulting in the sound of pleasure it evokes.

"Facedown against the desk," Cor says after a while, voice gruff, and Ignis moves to comply. "All the way down. Good."

Cor fucks him with minimal prep and sharp, efficient strokes -- brisk and no-nonsense as is everything else about him -- and the wrecked moans it wrings from Ignis's throat are genuine. He's breathless with want and need, overwhelmed by the thrill of finally getting what he's wanted for so long; he's positive the other Crownsguard can hear him making noise through the walls, and he wishes, irrationally, for one of them to walk into Cor's office and see Ignis spread out underneath their stalwart Marshal, taking his cock so deep it brings tears to Ignis's eyes. He remembers what King Regis had said to him that very first time -- that he'd been made, in the infinite wisdom of the Astrals, just for this -- and he's never believed it more than he does now, moaning _yes, yes, yes_ with every one of Cor's staccato thrusts. 

When he comes, Ignis barely has the presence of mind to catch his own release rather than let it splatter across the paperwork. Cor follows shortly afterwards, spilling into Ignis with a muffled grunt.

"Go home," he says to Ignis, once they're dressed. He looks just as tired as he did when they started, perhaps even more so. "I'm excusing you from duty tomorrow."

"Yes, Marshal," says Ignis. He lingers at the doorway, but Cor only jerks his head -- _go_ \-- and Ignis does, sticky and sated. He spends his day off catching up on paperwork and touching himself to the memory of Cor inside him, of his teeth sharp on the back of Ignis's neck; he doesn't know what it was that finally led Cor to crowd Ignis against the wall and claim his mouth in a bruising kiss, only that he can't wait for it to happen again.

It never does. Ignis arrives at the Citadel bright and early the next morning, blood thrumming with anticipation, but when he enters Cor's office to greet him Cor doesn't quite meet his eyes. From that point on, he treats Ignis like any other Crownsguard under his command: strictly professional, far less paternal, even a little curt. It takes several more years for Ignis to fully understand exactly what was lost then, that day in Cor's office. For now there's only confusion and hurt and the taste of betrayal, more bitter on Ignis's tongue than any man's seed could ever be.

 

\--

 

Councillor Thibault's rape trial is an open-and-shut case. Called upon to represent him is the Citadel's legal team, among them Ignis's uncle; he and two others resign almost immediately from the case. Councillor Thibault may be one of their own, but so is the victim, a young woman from the House of Aetion in training with the Crownsguard, and the anguish in her eyes and her voice when she recounts how the councillor threatened her with expulsion if she didn't give in to his demands is painfully genuine. Ignis knows her only peripherally, but he and forty other Crownsguard attend the trial in solidarity; they watch the defense's attempts to slander her, to paint her as an attention-seeking homewrecker, fall flat in the face of the councillor's SMS records, and the jury deliberates only a few hours before returning a unanimous guilty verdict. 

Afterwards, the group heads to a local bar, the celebration muted but still victorious. Ignis knows Veronica herself must be fairly overwhelmed, so he limits their interaction to a warm smile and an offer to listen if she'd ever like to talk; he's not expecting much, uncomfortably aware of his maleness, but she smiles back anyway, tells him she's returning to therapy, and thanks him for the show of support. When he says he wishes her well with all his heart, he means it. 

Gladio begs off sometime around eleven, but Ignis declines his offer of a ride home: his schedule is open for the first night in quite some time, and he's enjoying the opportunity to catch up with his colleagues outside of work. It feels like it's been ages since he had a night to himself, and he gladly accepts the various drinks pushed at him alongside good-natured jibes about his career trajectory. A joke about him becoming _princess consort_ makes him blush; he covers up the awkwardness by purchasing the next round of drinks.

Ignis's bladder asserts itself sometime around midnight, which is right when the men's washroom decides to flood. Ignis sighs and joins the queue outside the unisex washrooms. The music is quieter in this area, but most of the patrons seem to be too drunk to moderate their volume, and he can't help picking up snatches of conversation. There's a cluster of younger Crownsguard in front of him: Veronica's cohort, he guesses, and is shortly proven right.

" -- what that fucking bastard did to Vee," one of the young men is saying, gesturing madly. He seems utterly sloshed, his eyes and face bright red. "Give me five minutes with him, just five minutes, I _swear_ \-- "

"Remus, calm your fucking tits, man. The trial's over, okay? He's gonna rot in prison for the rest of his life." 

"Fifty crown says he doesn't last the week," a third man pipes up; the statement's met with enthusiastic agreement from the queue, and Ignis finds himself hoping, vindictively, that that's the case. Councillor Thibault may have been an effective mediator between Lucis and Accordo, but the crown owes no loyalty to villains of his nature. 

The conversation drifts a bit to capital punishment -- the queue is somewhat lacking in compelling arguments, as intoxicated as its members are -- but eventually comes back around to the crime committed against Veronica, much like every other conversation taking place in the Citadel these past few weeks.

"Here's what I don't fuckin' get," one of the men declaims at last, rather loudly. "You want sex that bad, you don't have to go around raping anybody, you know? There's _loads_ of desperate chicks in this town just begging for the D."

There's hollering and laughter, and Ignis tries his best to hide a grimace; he's never liked this sort of locker-room talk. Typically he has no qualms about lecturing others on propriety, even strangers, but tonight he's too buzzed to do more than lean against the wall and wait for the queue to move.

"Specially those girls from Duscae," the same man continues. "They move here for college and suddenly they can't get enough _hands-on learning_ , if you know what I mean."

"Right? It's not hard as long as you're not fuck-ugly -- and if you _are_ fuck-ugly, just pay for it, man. It's expensive, yeah, but it's better than this." 

Another man leans around from Ignis's right. "Not to mention the girls there actually know what they're doing," he says, giving the loud man a high-five. Ignis sighs unhappily and closes his eyes. The conversation is beginning to test his patience, and he's appalled that members of the Crownsguard, even ones in training, would be this vulgar and uncouth in public. He whirls around, ready to throw down with the loud man on the left, when he's cut off by one of the women.

"What if you're broke, though?" she asks. "Where do you go to get some if you're ugly and you can't pay?"

The man on Ignis's right gives a harsh, braying laugh. "Then you call for delivery and order the Citadel Special, and it comes right to your room, hot and ready!"

"Who, him? _Fuck_ no. Who the hell knows what he's got by this point? Ain't touching that with a  ten-foot pole."

"Surely they've got to keep him tested," another woman says. "Even the king sleeps with him -- it's not like they'd send him somebody with chlamydia."

The man with the bright red face, dozing against the wall, suddenly springs into alertness. "Guys," he says, yanking on his friends' arms to get their attention. " _Guys_ \-- "

"Does he even do girls, though? I thought he only did guys."

"I heard he's never said no to anyone."

"I heard he didn't even say no to his uncle," says the man on Ignis's right, speaking over his friend. "How fucked-up is that?"

 _They're talking about me_ , Ignis realizes with a dim, glacial horror. His shoulder against the wall seems to be the only thing keeping him upright. The only way this scenario could possibly be more cliché is if Ignis was already inside the washroom, trapped in a stall and listening to the others wash their hands; as it is, he's trapped in the hallway with them, ears burning with shame as he goes perfectly still.

"Sebastian, will you _please_ shut the  fuck -- "

"Bet you'd still hit it anyway, you perv." The second woman makes a face, then a series of gestures that's indecipherable yet clearly obscene. "That must be why you're so excited for induction, huh? Ready to take the Citadel bicycle for a spin?"

"Shut _up_ , Amalia, he's right fucking there -- "

"Who? Who's where?" The woman's gaze darts around wildly, past Ignis at first before landing squarely on him, and her mouth goes round in shock. "Oh, _fuck_. Fuck. Are  you -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- we were just joking -- "

"Excuse me," Ignis says. He pushes his way as politely as possible out of the bar and gets three steps down the sidewalk before vomiting into the gutter. It's where Gladio finds him ten minutes later, expression full of concern, and drives him carefully back to his apartment.

Ignis wakes the next morning not, as he'd hoped, with a pounding hangover and a blank spot in his memory. Instead, the first thing he sees in his mind's eye are the men and women from the bar, their faces contorted in mocking disgust; he nearly vomits up all the water Gladio made him drink before he went to bed, but ends up simply curling in on himself, sheets tugged over his head. He stays that way until Noct calls him for the third time, demanding to know where he is. 

"My apologies," he tells Noct. "I had a bit of a late night, but I'll be there posthaste." 

"Gladio said he dropped you off at home," Noct says, sounding unusually angry. Ignis supposes he should've been at Noct's apartment first thing in the morning, but it's hardly reason to yell. "You didn't go anywhere else, did you?" 

"No, I didn't. I've simply just now woken up, that's all." 

"Oh," says Noct. "Okay. See you soon, I guess." 

Ignis hangs up, takes a few deep breaths, and resolves to put last night behind him. He doesn't quite know if he _can_ , but he has no other choice but to try.

 

\--

 

He has lunch with his uncle a week later, and lies when he's asked if he's doing all right. In truth, he's been sleeping poorly since the incident at the bar, unable to rid himself of the jeers and horrible insinuations that echo in the chambers of his mind. The worst part of all is knowing they're objectively right: the number of sexual partners he's had is likely closer to that of professional sex workers and adult film stars than the average young man his age -- even Gladio, who's run through nearly all of Insomnia's eligible bachelorettes in his pursuit of true romance. 

It would be letting them win, Ignis decides in the end, if he cancelled all his appointments and refused to see anyone ever again, and by this point his reputation at the Citadel has more or less solidified. Outwardly, nothing has changed -- not his high standing at court nor his unlimited access to resources nor his ability to get things done, and his newfound awareness of the rumors has no impact on the fact of their existence. For all he knows, the lower denizens of the Citadel have been spouting this kind of sordid tripe for years, and yet none of it has affected him professionally in the least.

Still, he can't shake the bitter taste that rises in his throat every time he meets another person's gaze and wonders if they're thinking the same terrible thoughts, if in the back of their minds they're calling him _whore_ and _slut_ while calling him _sir_ to his face. They would never dare say anything, of course, but it gnaws at him regardless.

Drautos calls on him a few days after that, the first to avail of Ignis's services since the events at the bar. He's not alone, as usual, and Ignis has a brief moment of uncertainty before setting down his belongings and removing the lower half of his clothing to come behind Drautos's desk and climb into his lap. The stretch and fullness feels achingly good, and Ignis can't help letting out a moan when Drautos shifts and his cock slides deeper into him, utterly distracting him from the agricultural report open on his phone; Drautos pauses in the middle of his sentence, and the glaive he's speaking with clears their throat nervously, face flushed pink. Ignis feels himself flushing as well but goes back to reading the report, determined to put the time to good use.

Drautos waits for the glaive to leave before leaning forward and tipping Ignis onto his desk, pounding into him until they both come with a shout. Afterwards, Ignis stops to clean up in one of the Citadel's restrooms as he's always done after Drautos's summons, already thinking about what to make for Noct's dinner. Nothing has changed; nothing need change. He washes his face and fixes his hair in the mirror, and the only eyes that stare back at him are his own.

 

\--

 

"Prompto wants to join the Crownsguard."

"Does he?"

"Yeah," says Noct, slumping further down in his seat. "I told him I didn't want him to."

Ah. Noct must be concerned for Prompto's welfare -- the Crownsguard is a dangerous duty, even for one trained since childhood, and Prompto is but an ordinary citizen. "It's only natural to want to protect your friends," says Ignis, "but perhaps he'll turn out to be suited for the task."

"I don't want him getting killed for me," Noct says thickly. "That's already Gladio's job, and yours -- I can't have him risking his life for me, too. I can't have him be a part of this."

"Perhaps you could pull strings, see to it he's given a low-risk assignment. Monitoring the royal archives, something of that nature."

"I don't want him at the Citadel at all," says Noct, and Ignis looks over at him, surprised by his vehemence. Noct's hands are curled into fists on his thighs, and his expression is dark, despite the bright morning sun. They're late for Noct's shift at the clinic, but Ignis hits the brakes anyway and checks his mirrors, preparing to pull over and continue the conversation somewhere safer. Not that Noct seems to want or need his input, but still.

Noct notices, of course. "Don't pull over," he says. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not some delicate wilting flower. Drive."

Ignis does. Noct straightens up in his seat and turns to look out the window at the opposite traffic, and Ignis asks, perhaps against his better judgment, "Why don't you want Prompto at the Citadel?" 

"He wouldn't fit in here," says Noct. "He's not like us."

"I couldn't tell." That much is obvious; Prompto couldn't tell the difference between a salad and a dessert fork. "Or is there something else you mean by that?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Prompto, he looks at us and sees all the glitz and the glamour and he doesn't -- he doesn't _know_ ," says Noct, voice tight, "just how fucked-up this place is. Everything that gets swept under the rug -- the drugs, the kickbacks, all the cheating and the lying and the selfishness, holding banquets to pat ourselves on the back while we use our own people as cannon fodder for the Niffs -- and maybe that's just the way politics _is_ , but it shouldn't be. You and Gladio grew up here, but Prompto doesn't have to be a part of this. I won't let him."

"I beg your pardon," says Ignis, hackles beginning to rise. "Those are our colleagues and friends you're maligning so cavalierly. If the misconduct at the Citadel is as pervasive as you claim -- "

"Oh, of course _you'd_ say that," Noct says over him, "because otherwise, you'd actually have  to d -- "

The blare of a car's horn cuts through the conversation, and Ignis swerves back into his lane, heart pumping wildly. He's angry, perhaps irrationally so, but Noct's managed to hit a nerve. To imply such dreadful things about the people Ignis has worked with his entire life -- it's the behavior of a jealous child, not a nineteen-year-old prince. Ignis sees better than anyone the hard work everyone at the Citadel puts in to keep the country running, the sacrifices they've all made in their personal and professional lives for the sake of the crown. It's an insult, what Noct's implying. He won't stand for it.

They drive the rest of the way in bitter silence. Eventually Ignis chances another look over at Noct, who looks like a man desperate to throw himself into traffic with only the child-proof locks in Ignis's car standing in his way. Ignis knows the feeling well; normally he'd put a hand on Noct's shoulder, say something reassuring, but he's not feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

"I'll get Monica to drive me home," Noct says when they arrive, and then he's slamming the door shut and stalking off. Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten, and when his phone pings with a text from Clarus, delivering yet more bad news about Niflheim, it's almost a relief.

 

\--

 

Tiberius Casca is, quite possibly, Ignis's favorite out of all the hundreds of his callers. Being a simple glaive, Casca is officially limited to one hour-long appointment every three months, but over the past few years they've added up and Ignis has gotten to know him rather well. He hasn't let himself forget what this arrangement truly is, certainly hasn't let himself fall for Casca like he did for Gladio, but Ignis finds himself genuinely enjoying the other man's company -- not to mention his handsome face and skillful kisses and the wonderfully massive cock that never fails to pound out one toe-curling orgasm from Ignis after another.

He's attempting to make himself presentable for the upcoming council meeting when Casca comes up behind him, laying a hand on his waist. "Can I still see you?" he asks. "Afterwards?"

"You know I can't," says Ignis, though he _is_ a bit sorry about this fact. "I'll be lucky to have any time to myself in the next three weeks, swamped with work as I am, and besides, there are rules."

"Not after your meeting," says Casca. "I meant, after this is over."

Ignis pauses, fingers on the buttons of his shirt. "What do you mean?" 

He has no idea what Casca could possibly be talking about. Is he planning to quit the Kingsglaive? Does he know something he's not telling Ignis, is there political drama he doesn't know about? Could Ignis be about to lose his job? He hasn't done anything worthy of termination, but he's heard some of the more bloodthirsty councilmembers would like to see him gone, jealous of how high he's risen despite his youth. It's entirely possible someone has fabricated some scandal in order to force him to resign, or perhaps even framed him for a crime. 

Casca pulls away from him and sits back on the bed. "All I meant was -- you're almost twenty-one, right?" 

"Yes," Ignis says. "And that matters because?"

"Because you won't _have_ to see me any more," says Casca. "And I'd very much like to keep seeing you, Ignis. Please say you'll consider it." 

Casca continues talking, complimenting Ignis's physical and mental qualities, but Ignis can only hear the sound of the blood rushing through his ears. He hasn't thought about the contract since he'd signed it that day in Cor's office; the wording comes back to him, clear as day: 

_This special assignment shall last for a period of no more than five years, whereupon the assignee will return to his regular duties and, if he has served the duration in full, receive a bonus of 50% in addition to the regular compensation for his services._

Has it been five years already? Five years of bending over for the High Council, spreading his legs for the Crownsguard, getting on his knees for the Kingsglaive. It doesn't feel that long -- and at the same time, it feels like it's been an eternity. 

"There's this kid from Galahd wants to join up," Casca is saying, and Ignis tunes back into the conversation. "He's allergic to the king's magic, and there are rules, like you said, so he can't be Crownsguard, but he's stubborn -- he won't let them send him back. He's not as pretty as you or the prince but he's easy on the eyes, and Lazarus likes him; Arra and Ostium, too. Word is they'll be putting his name forward to take your place."

"Oh," says Ignis. His stomach turns over. "How old is he?"

Casca shrugs. "Fifteen, maybe. People are gonna have to make do till he's legal, but I'm pretty sure he'd start now if they gave him the chance. And there's also . . . well, I shouldn't say it."

"Please," Ignis says; he leaves the dresser to come stand by the bed, clutching Casca's hand tightly. "Tell me."

Casca looks up at him, clearly hesitant. "The Amicitia girl -- she's about the same age. I know they don't let females take this on, but since there's no other heir to protect some people are predicting she might try to muscle her way in." He squeezes Ignis's hand, shrugging. "It's a big responsibility, but if there's any girl who could do what you do, it'd be her." 

Ignis feels, suddenly, as if he can't breathe. "I'm sorry," he says. "I have to go." He tugs his hand out of Casca's grasp, having only the wherewithal to lean down and kiss him goodbye, and then he's flying out the door, mind and heart racing a million miles an hour and still not fast enough.

 

\--

 

His twenty-first birthday fast approaches, and Ignis spends what little free time he has between his duties and Noct's infinite demands going over the legal minutiae of his contract. He isn't sure what he's looking for -- a loophole, an excuse, a rationalization -- and he isn't sure he finally finds it, either, but at the conclusion of the next council meeting he moves quickly to the king's side and asks for a moment of his time.

"What seems to be the matter, Ignis?" asks the king, once the council chambers have been cleared. 

Ignis can't help straightening nervously under his attention. "A small concern, Your Majesty," he says, taking a moment to steel himself. "As you know, I turn twenty-one in three months. The seventh of February will therefore be the formal conclusion of my . . . special duties to the crown."

The king's expression relaxes. "Is that all? You had me quite anxious, dear boy." He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "You'd like to conclude said duties early, I suppose? I must say it's time you finally settled down."

"I'm not, Your Majesty," Ignis says, heart pounding in his chest so loudly he's sure the other man can hear it. "On the contrary, I would like to . . . to re-negotiate the terms of that particular subsection of my contract. If the council and Your Majesty are amenable, I would like to extend my services for an additional . . . "

He trails off. He'd come here with a number, but the image of Gladio's sister surfaces in his mind's eye; if not her, then some other young Lucian, some other _child_ , and it's nothing Ignis hasn't already done. 

"An additional five years," he says at last, and doesn't miss how the king's eyes widen in surprise. "I make this offer of my own volition, with full and informed consent."

The king simply looks thoughtfully into the distance for a few moments, and Ignis feels his palms start to sweat. Is it possible he's overstepped his bounds? There'd been nothing in his contract or the last several centuries' worth of legal literature specifically forbidding someone from performing this duty after the age of twenty-one; but perhaps it would be considered distasteful to steal this opportunity -- this _honor_ \-- from another youth eager to prove their usefulness to the crown. Perhaps he'll be fired for simply asking. He wipes his damp palms on his trousers and tries not to panic.

Finally the king speaks. "Not once in the last three-hundred years has a _pathicus_ completed the full  five-year duration of his contract," he says. "As I'm sure you're well aware."

"I am, Your Majesty."

"Is it the compensation? Or the prestige? Because let me assure you, your standing at this court is unassailable."

"No, Your Majesty," Ignis says, looking the king square in the eye. He had an intelligent answer for this, but it's fled; all he has now is the honest truth. "I am simply not ready to give this up. I . . . I need this."

The king nods. "Then I will see to it you'll have it, my child," he says, and Ignis is so grateful he's sinking to his knees before his king, the shock of cold marble through his trousers the most overwhelming relief.

Dustin is the one to tell him the news a few weeks later, despite not being Ignis's direct superior; Cor seems to want nothing to do with this particular duty of Ignis's ever since that afternoon in his office, and it's only logical that he'd delegate. Ignis has been worrying himself sick ever since his conversation with the king, tossing and turning all night long, and finally had to put it out of his mind if he was going to be at all productive. Dustin himself has never availed of Ignis's services, something of which Ignis is peripherally aware as Dustin pulls him aside in the corridor, holding out a tablet for Ignis's signature.

"There was some initial opposition, according to the Marshal," he says, "but your contract has been renewed. They've compromised on three years: you'll be serving until February of 758."

"Ah," says Ignis. "I suppose I'm getting a bit long in the tooth for some of the High Council. Did he say who it was?" 

"He didn't say, no. Whoever it was must have outranked him, but clearly the king's favor carried more weight."

Ignis skims through the contract; the wording has remained more or less the same, the only significant change being the duration and the percentage of the bonus, and he signs and returns Dustin's tablet and stylus. "Do you happen to know how the Marshal voted?"

"He abstained; I know that much."

Ignis nods. "Thank you, sir." That night he writes a brief email to his uncle informing him of the renewal -- Ignis is sure he's already heard, but it's courteous to let him know firsthand -- and after some vacillation blind-copies Gladio and Noct as well, simply for logistical reasons. Gladio emails back with a thumbs-up emoji; Ignis wonders if he was aware that Iris was ever under consideration for the position, but decides he must not have been, otherwise he might have said more, either in gratitude or censure. As for Noct, he doesn't email back -- but it's as Ignis expected, and after that night he doesn't lose any more sleep over the matter.

 

\--

 

The 149th session of the Lucian Crownsguard matriculates in the spring. Among them is Prompto, who wears his recruit's uniform with pride; Noct and Ignis are there at his commencement in the front row, genuinely proud. The spring is typically marked by the flood of emails in Ignis's inbox; the Crownsguard number far less than the Kingsglaive, but the latter has no set induction date, whereas the newly sworn-in Crownsguard tend to take the first opportunity to request an appointment with him, sometimes even at the same time, leading to a very busy April indeed.

Ignis is stepping into an apartment on the west side to see _Fulvianus, C._ , _Noveriam, S._ , and _Sulla, M._ when he hears one of the occupants laugh, the sound horribly familiar; he rounds the corner to find three of the Crownsguard from the bar all those years ago, the lot of them shirtless and holding shot glasses. Ignis chides himself mentally; he should have expected this sooner rather than later, but perhaps his repression of the event was more thorough than he'd thought.

"Good evening," he says. He sets down his satchel and begins taking off his jacket, conscious of the three men's eyes on him. "Shall I be servicing you one at a time or together?"

"Dude, I told you," the tallest man -- Sebastian, Ignis remembers -- says, nudging another with an elbow. " _Told_ you he did groups." The third man simply continues to stare at Ignis, mouth open and face flushed. Ignis folds his jacket neatly and starts on the buttons of his shirt, purposely making a bit of a show.

"Chop, chop," he says, letting his shirt fall open. "Time to make a decision, gentlemen." 

"Together," Sebastian says. 

"Yeah, t-together," the second man echoes, though his expression is dubious. "You're sure it's okay?"

"More than okay," Ignis says. He walks towards the group, hips swaying, and allows them to do with him what they will.

 

\--

 

The Chancellor of Niflheim wants Noct, and he's not in the least bit subtle about it. Ignis can see the hunger in his eyes from across the banquet hall, a far cry from their later indifference as they trail over Ignis as he stands in the entryway to the Chancellor's guest quarters, waiting for him to make a decision.

In the end, Ignis is sent away without being touched or even meriting a second glance. Ignis knows better by now than to be offended, simply takes his leave and drives over to Noct's apartment, where he makes dinner and beats Noct handily at three straight Tekken matches before Noct manages to turn the tables. The pleasant mood follows him all the way through work the next day, at least until Noct calls him in the middle of the afternoon, sounding as if he's been crying.

"What's wrong?" asks Ignis, already fishing in his pockets for his keys. 

"Did you know?" Noct's voice is nearly hysterical. "Specs, did you _know_?" 

"Know what? Noct -- I don't know what you're talking about -- "

Noct's next words cause Ignis's heart to sink like a stone in his chest. "I have to get married," he says. "Two months from now. Dad says -- Dad says it's the only way Niflheim will leave us alone."

"Don't go anywhere, Noct," says Ignis, blinking away sudden tears. "I'll be right there." _And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

 

\--

 

The wedding is the first time Ignis has ever left Insomnia. It's also the first time in years he hasn't been on-call, as it were, and he finds the newfound freedom . . . peculiar. Lying next to his three friends in the tent, Ignis wonders what would happen if he offered himself to them right now; technically, it would still fall under his purview, as even Prompto is formal Crownsguard now, but pragmatically it would surely lead to little more than his own embarrassment. Noct's virginity has suddenly become a matter of the utmost importance, and even if he wanted Ignis -- which he explicitly doesn't -- Noct would never betray Lunafreya thus; he and Gladio no longer see each other in a sexual light these days, as if their capacity for mutual attraction has simply disappeared, a boolean now set to false; and Prompto, despite having known Ignis for close to seven years, still seems to find him unapproachable and intimidating -- were Ignis to make any sexual overtures, he'd be unlikely to respond in a manner that suited either of their needs. 

Clearly, the only intimate contact Ignis will be getting on this trip will be of the self-supplied variety. He takes advantage of their infrequent caravan stays to jerk off in the cramped shower stall, forehead pressed to the tile and three fingers liberally coated with conditioner and shoved inside of him, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring along a toy like Prompto did, a fact Ignis discovered by mutually horrifying accident. He doesn't, as a consequence of his duty, engage much in masturbation; it almost feels more strange to feel himself pulsing under his own hand than someone else's. It's hardly a substitute for sex.

Sleeping while on the road, however, is surprisingly nice. Ignis hasn't simply _slept_ beside someone since Councillor Valverde's husband committed suicide and he requested Ignis hold him throughout the long nights, both of them fully clothed, until the nightmares went away. Ignis finds Noct's steady snores comforting rather than irritating, and the way Prompto burrows against Ignis's back in his sleep makes him  feel . . . warm. Safe. Secure. Gladio's presence is like that of an overgrown Great Dane, he imagines: protective and intimidating, yet gentle and unfailingly loyal. The longer they're on the road, the less and less Ignis misses the Citadel, until the day he wakes and realizes he'd do anything to spend one more night like this, just like this.

 

\--

 

When Insomnia falls, Ignis doesn't know how to feel. 

Standing on a rocky ledge above the smoldering ruins of the crown city, Ignis has a sudden, startling moment of self-pity. All his training and decorum, his lifetime of lessons, the careful memorization of the procedures that keep the city running, the way he's learned to navigate the Citadel's interpersonal politics, his intimate obligation to the crown: all of it lies in ruins. The High Council is gone. His uncle is dead. There are so few Crownsguard left now, and hardly any glaives who haven't also turned traitor. There is only a prince, too young and too unready, and the fallen remains of a kingdom that Ignis has loved and served since the moment of his birth.

He knows he isn't alone in feeling so horribly untethered, but none of them have the time to grieve, a fact Cor sternly reminds them of when they meet up with him at the Tomb of the Wise. They follow him from there to Keycatrich and the Tomb of the Conqueror, and then to the Niflheimer base blocking the roads to Duscae. It isn't until they've taken down an entire Magitek platoon and the Cuirass piloted by one of the brigadier generals Ignis serviced seemingly a lifetime ago that he gets a moment alone with Cor, feeling uncomfortably grimy and bloodstained as he catches Cor by the base's exit.

"Marshal."

"Ignis," says Cor. His expression is hardened, but his voice is soft. "How are you holding up?"

"Well enough," says Ignis. He hasn't completely fallen apart, at least, and he's still capable of taking care of Noct. Everything else is secondary, even the old heat pooling low in his groin at the sight of Cor, equally grimy and bloodstained, strong brow dappled with a faint sheen of sweat. "And yourself? Have you taken any rest since -- since Insomnia?"

Cor grunts. "Not yet. His Majesty needs all the help he can get." 

"Agreed," says Ignis.

"Sorry about your uncle," Cor says, and Ignis nods graciously. After a small yet visible hesitation, Cor pulls Ignis into his arms: it's unexpected and tragically brief, but once Ignis registers what's happening the contact fills him with warmth, with comfort, a far cry from the instinctive reaction of his body to such a handsome man. When Cor releases him and steps back, Ignis feels lighter, genuinely bolstered by the gesture.

It's the last time anyone touches him before Altissia. Everything else happens very quickly after that.

 

\--

 

While Noct recovers from the summoning of Leviathan and the death of his dearest friend, Ignis begins the arduous process of learning to live in the dark. Dressing himself, preparing meals, using his cellphone, wiping his ass: simple skills he took for granted, and all of which must be reacquired in a painstaking, frequently humiliating manner. Prompto insists he's being hard on himself, but Ignis knows he can't afford to be coddled, even by his own inner voice. By the time they're bound for Cartanica, he's almost functional. 

It hasn't done much to quell Gladio's temper, however, and almost as soon as they're aboard he's picking a fight with Noct; he even drags Ignis's name into it before Noct goes stalking off down the long corridor. Ignis stays where he is, more out of practicality than to give him space -- he's not sure exactly to where Noct has retreated, and he'd rather not fall to his death in between train cars -- and bides his time until Noct returns, outwardly calmer even if not inwardly so.

"When this is all over, I'm going to demand reparations," Noct says some hours later out of the blue. Ignis, face turned towards the last fleeting rays of sunlight through the window, looks back in Noct's direction. "Not just for you. For everyone who's ever had to do what you did."

Noct hasn't been speaking much of late, and when he does it's in reaction to Ignis's concern or Prompto's overeager solicitousness or, as just now, Gladio's antagonism; rarely has he initiated conversation in the past few weeks, and never about Altissia. Ignis has tried to give him space -- even now he considers simply letting the matter drop, uncertain if either of them are ready for such a heavy conversation. 

When he hears the wet sound of Noct parting his lips to speak, Ignis speaks over him. "I appreciate your generosity," he says, "but the life of a royal retainer is one of sacrifice. Our lives are sworn to your service -- I'd do it again, as many times as it took to protect you."

"I'm not talking about _that_ ," says Noct, and Ignis falls silent. The train tracks rattle loudly, sending vibrations through his bones, and Ignis is suddenly quite sure the matter of which Noct is speaking. Not since Noct was seventeen have they even come close to broaching the topic; he feels, absurdly, that he'd rather Noct have meant Altissia.

"Ah," he says at last. "That's rather . . . trivial, in the grander scheme of things, is it not?"

"God _damn_ it, Specs, why are you  always -- " Ignis hears Noct suck in a breath, then a soft thump as he hits the table with his fist. "For once in your life, will you just -- just _stop?_ "

Ignis stops, mouth open around the shape of a word, and says nothing. To the north, the sun continues to set.

"What my dad did to you," Noct says shakily. "What Gladio's dad did; Drautos, even Cor -- even _Gladio_ \-- it wasn't right, Ignis, and you know it. You're not stupid; I know you know,  and I -- " He breaks off, gasping ever-so-slightly, and the sound makes Ignis's heart ache. "I just stood there and let it _happen_."

Ignis considers his next words carefully. "Noct. No one forced me; I chose this." 

It's the truth, after all, or the version of it he tells himself. He'd signed the contract. He'd made the decision. He'd reaped the benefits and the prestige, and everything they'd come with. As far as his duties went, it was hardly the least enjoyable. Hardly even an imposition, by the end of it; nothing he couldn't endure for the sake of the crown. No one blackmailed him, coerced him, held him down or slapped him or came inside him or even kissed him without first securing his permission. No one took what he hadn't given, freely, of his own accord.

"The same way I chose _this?_ " 

Noct's hand alights on his, the ring's metal shockingly cold against Ignis's skin in contrast to the heat of Noct's palm. Ignis hears himself draw in a breath; knows, too, deep in the innermost recesses of his mind and heart, that Noct is right, and that he always has been. Ignis would gladly take on Noct's burden, too, if he could -- would call upon the Lucii and give his last breath to repel the darkness -- but neither of them should be forced to carry it at all.

"Don't punish Gladio," he says, words spilling out of him thoughtlessly, suddenly, like the first few drinks he'd poured as a blind man, overflowing with no recourse. "He was younger than you are now when we were together, and he's since apologized to me for how our relationship ended. And it was only the once with Cor; I know now he wishes he hadn't. Perhaps the others, yes -- but with them, at least, there's nothing to forgive."

"Fine," says Noct. "Still. I know money won't make up for any of it, but I don't know what else I can do." Shuffling noises, the distinct matte sound of Noct rubbing the back of his neck. "I wish I could take it all back. I wish it had happened to m -- "

" _No_ ," says Ignis, and this is the one thing over which he will brook no argument. "I would never have allowed such a thing to happen to you. Never. Not even once."

When Noct speaks, Ignis can hear the wry twist to his lips. "But you chose it, right?" 

_No. Never. Not even once._

"Thank you, Noct," says Ignis. The words hang in the air between them, and finally Noct draws in a long uneven breath. 

"You deserved better. We both did."

"In a different life, perhaps." Ignis turns his wrist, entwining their fingers together on the table. Noct tightens his hold, his palm smooth and warm against Ignis's, then lets go.

"Yeah," he says. "A different life."


	2. Bonus

"So," says Prompto, faux-casual in the way that means he's about to say something either really inappropriate and/or really personal, and Noctis is honestly not in the mood for either one but it's Prompto, his best friend, and so he sits upright and looks attentive. "I know I don't _get_ it, like, being just a regular person and all," Prompto says, "but sometimes I hear, you know, _things_ about the Citadel and I'm just like, no way, that can't be real. Right?"

"Dude, we already went over this -- Dad and I aren't vampires. You've got to stop letting Octavia jerk you around."

"I heard it from Quentin, actually -- his girlfriend's sister is on the Council and _she_ said that,  uh -- " Prompto leans in, face pink. "That there's a person at the Citadel whose job it is to, like . . . sleep with everybody? For morale? And maybe it was a joke, I mean, Quentin's kind of an asshole, but he seemed really sure about this being an actual thing and that the person -- the person is, um, Ignis?"

Noctis has lied for Ignis before, but never about this. The denial is on the tip of his tongue -- _of course that isn't a real thing, and even if it was you've got the wrong_ _guy_ \-- but it doesn't make it past his lips, and he knows from years and years of politics lectures that when it comes to tough questions, silence is confirmation enough. Prompto's eyes and mouth go wide, and Noctis shakes his head, knowing what he's about to ask. "No," he says. "Never."

"But you _could?_ I mean, if you wanted to?"

"I _don't_ want to," Noctis says. Not if it's like that. Not if Ignis thinks he's obligated to. "I care about him."

"But your dad . . . and Gladio's dad -- " Prompto goes a little pale. "Gladio?"

"They were dating," says Noctis. His voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "He's allowed to date. It's in his contract -- he's allowed to see whoever he wants, even if they're not from here. He can turn someone down for any reason, and no one's allowed to force him to see them or to use it against him at work."

Noctis looks down at his hands. There's a reason he tries not to think about this. It isn't easy, not when Ignis walks around all the time looking like he's been roughed up by muggers or smelling like some cologne Noctis knows isn't his, when he comes over and has to stand in Noctis's kitchen for hours because he clearly can't even sit down without it hurting, and Noctis always has to act like he doesn't know and doesn't care even though he's furious inside, horrified, stomach twisting with helpless guilt and shame and the knowledge that there's nothing he can _do_ about it, not if Ignis doesn't want to stop. 

"Noct?"

Noctis opens his eyes. His hands are clenched into fists, nails digging hard into his palms. He forces himself to relax. 

"I'm done talking about this," he says. "If you really want to know, you can ask him yourself."

"O-okay," says Prompto. The look on his face is one of chagrin, and Noctis knows he should feel bad about snapping at him, but he doesn't. They go back to their studies, and if Noctis concentrates a little too hard on the Duscaen Revolution of 423, it's only because he wants to pound this exam into the dust.

Ignis shows up a little after eight. "Apologies," he says. "I meant to arrive and start dinner earlier, but I was held up leaving the Citadel."

"Don't worry about it, Specs," says Noctis. He sees Prompto gawking at Ignis, and he knows exactly what Prompto's thinking; he shakes his head. "Stop it," he hisses under his breath. "Prompto. Act normal."

"How am I supposed to act _normal_ ," Prompto whispers back. "It's not like I can just forget about -- "

"Don't _say_ it, are  you -- "

"Is there a problem, Your Highness?" Ignis appears in the living room holding two cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches. He looks perfectly normal, not a hair out of place. "Prompto?"

"Nope," lies Noctis, taking the plate. "Nothing."


	3. Coda

Noct loses Lunafreya. Ignis loses his sight. Gladio loses his temper. The three of them lose Prompto somewhere in the mountains of Succarpe and when they find him lose Noct for ten long years. Ten years in which hardly anyone touches Ignis but to assess their capabilities or guide him across unfamiliar terrain: Ignis knows Prompto and Gladio have taken their fair share of comfort in another's arms -- and most deservedly so -- but he himself remains staunchly celibate. He has, to his surprise, a decent number of admirers, nearly all of them admirable in their own right; it's a trial at first, but as the decade goes on it becomes easier and easier to turn down their advances, falsely professing asexuality when mentioning his extensive network of scars isn't deterrent enough. 

Gladio and Prompto learn soon enough to touch him carefully, only above the waist, and only after signaling their intent. When Noct arrives at Hammerhead the first thing he does is touch Ignis on the shoulder, hand lingering longer than is strictly necessary; Ignis goes weak at the knees at the contact, at the closeness of him. The most detailed sense-memory in the world could never compare to Noct in the flesh, smelling of ancient magic and laughing with a deep-throated baritone quite unlike his previous tenor. Ignis's skin yearns for his touch, craves it even more than he's missed his sight and his sense of purpose all these years; he replays the feeling of Noct's hand on his shoulder -- shockingly warm even through cloth -- until it threatens to overwhelm him. A walk might help, but he can't stray too far from Hammerhead this close to their mission, and after recounting the curatives he'd already painstakingly allocated several hours earlier he turns around and walks straight into Noct himself.

"Whoa," says Noct, hands coming up to brace Ignis's elbows, steadying him, before backing away. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

Ignis shrugs it off, swallows down the instinct to apologize. "It's fine."

"Kinda surprised I got the drop on you, to be honest. Prom says you're practically Daredevil now."

"Hardly," says Ignis. "For one thing, I'd never be caught dead in that red leather monstrosity."

Noct laughs, the sound achingly familiar to Ignis's ears, warming him from the inside despite the chilly air. He hears the scuff of gravel under Noct's boots as he steps closer once again. "Can't sleep?" he says, voice quietly earnest. 

"I'm a bit . . . preoccupied," admits Ignis. "As would be anyone when their king returns after ten years to . . . " _Sacrifice himself to the will of the gods, leaving me forever_. "Fulfill his destiny."

"I'm a bit preoccupied, too," Noct says with a sigh. He pauses, then touches Ignis's arm almost imperceptibly. "Need any help with that?" 

"What? Oh, no; I've already counted them twice," says Ignis. "But thank you." 

They stand there for a moment, silent. Ignis can sense when Noct finally turns to leave, and something strange rises up inside him, something powerful, and he's calling out to Noct before he knows what he's planning to say.

"Wait. Noct." 

Noct's heel scuffs in the gravel as he turns. "Yeah, Specs?" 

Ignis draws in a breath. The atmosphere between them becomes suddenly sharper; Noct always has been unnaturally perceptive. "No," he says, voice darkening. "If this is about -- I told you I didn't want this."

"I know. Noct, please, just hear me out -- " His voice breaks; Noct waits as he struggles to his composure. Ignis breathes in, breathes out. "I used to hold you," he says, "when we were children. The late summer storms: you were terrified of the lightning. You would climb into my bed and put your face against my neck; I'd put my arms around you, and you would fall asleep at last, knowing I would let no harm come to you. Knowing you were safe, and that you'd live to see the dawn."

"Ignis . . . "

"If you would let me protect you one last time, Your Majesty," says Ignis. "Please. I need -- I want this." _I want you_.

The few seconds it takes Noct to close the distance between them feel like an eternity; Ignis is hyperaware of the rustle of clothing, the shift in the air's currents. Then Noct's hand is reaching to tangle with his, and Noct is saying, "Come to bed," his breath warm against Ignis's throat, and Ignis, obedient as ever, follows him inside.


End file.
